A Snapdragon in a Field of Daisies
by Phantom Sunstorm
Summary: Schuldig finds out his relationship with Crawford isn't what its cracked up to be. It's actually pretty abusive.
1. Author Introduction

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Plot - Schuldig finds out his relationship with Crawford isn't what its cracked up to be. It's actually pretty abusive. But Crawford needs Schuldig, he's his 'Snapdragon among Daisy's.' Can love conquor hardship, help this young couple?  
  
Is it about love at all?   
  
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Disclaimer - I don't own Weiss or Schwartz, I'm not even Japanese. Though I would like to claim rights to the Schu-Schu, Farfie, Crawford, and Nagi voice in my head, I wouldn't want to risk having to pay the out-of-court settlement for violation of copyright law. I can't even spell copyright. Bottom line: Turkey's can't fly. I mean... Well, you know what I mean.   
  
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Warnings - A little bit of a darker take on Crawford's character. Come on people, we always knew he was a control freak, and he's only abusing Schuldig. Do we feel sorry for him? Have we heard the Mastermind's American voice actor? He just screams pedophile. Nothing too rough, I'll try to keep in the lines of what Crawford would do, but it could get nasty.  
  
Another Warning - fic's prone to random rants in diguise of character thoughts. Also, little attention is paid to the psychological complex and 'feeeelings' of the characters, as the author doesn't have enough depth or human compassion to write them. Look, the warning's become a rant. Run away while you can.   
  
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	2. Staying out of the Sun

Crawford had always said Schuldig was a snapdragon in a field of daisies.   
  
Schuldig never understood what he meant by that.   
  
He never tried.   
  
Things weren't turning out like they were suppose to. Crawford wasn't the great lover Schuldig expected him to be. Sure, he had the dark and mysterious American thing going for him, but he had it to the point where it was annoying. You'd think after being lovers as long as they had, the snobbish oracle would have opened up at least a little to his German telepath. But no, Crawford's lips remained a closed as his mind.   
  
And Schuldig had just about enough of it.   
  
  
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Nagi performed his daily disgusting ritual of blending his breakfast. The pancake-ice cream-scrambled egg shake had been Farfarello's invention at first a few months ago, he had been up early that morning, half sane and bored. Nagi had left the table to take the phone up to Crawford's office and the plate was just sitting their, unguarded, ripe and shining, ready for the plunder. And Farfarello needed something to blend.   
  
Ironically, Nagi liked the taste of all his food mashed up into a big chunky puddle of goo. It made taking down breakfast a lot faster, took less dishes, and if he was pressed for time, he could just put it in a thermos and eat it on the drive to school. On top of that, it impressed Farfarello's morbid side and made the psycho act more kindly to the younger assassin. It also freaked out Schuldig, and that was always a plus.  
  
Schuldig stormed into the kitchen, clawing for the coffee maker. Nagi watched him from the table, taking a casual sip of his chunky meal. "Nice bruise."  
  
"Bar fight," Schuldig hastily growled. He yanked his black Hooters mug from the sink and loaded it with ice cubes. Schuldig didn't mind having his coffee a little cold, he always gulped it down the moment it hit the glass, and he was quite partial towards the nerve endings in his tongue.   
  
"Sure." Nagi replied, he finished off his drink and cleared the table. Schuldig had to scoot over to allow the teenager sink access. The water ran than shut off. Nagi grabbed his books.   
  
"Sure as silk." The German replied snidely.   
  
The teenager quirked an eyebrow, "...never boast that your Japanese is fluent, that all idioms translate well, or that you ever make sense."   
  
Nagi turned towards the door, than hesitated, his heart beating a little faster than he should. He felt clever - which was rare in a house where the people you interacted with could either predict what you were about to say, or already plucked it from your mind, or were just plain stark raving mad - Nagi decided to act upon it.  
  
"Are you sure you're okay?" He asked. "Do you want me to get you an ice pack?"  
  
Schuldig glared, "I'm okely dokely allrIIIIGHT." The telepath screamed as a set of invisible fingers jabbed at the bruised flesh circling his eye socket.   
  
Fine, indeed.   
  
Nagi gave his teammate a parting glare.  
  
"Schuldig, you aren't fooling anyone."   
  
  
=======================================================================  
  
  
He kept himself scarce for the rest of the day, wandering the city, visiting the clubs, making a statement: I have better things to do. When he returned to their upstate apartment, he knew Farfarello would be locked up for the night, Nagi would be hiding in his room, studying or cybering, whatever he did up there with his creepy computer and sound proof walls. Dinner would have been delivered and eaten an hour ago, Crawford would be finishing up his office work and...  
  
Ready for luuuv.  
  
Schuldig breezed through the door, cracking his knuckles in a righteous, confident manner. "Time for the make-up sex." He announced to the empty living room.   
  
He paused there, pondering. Should he come into the bedroom butt naked, or should he let Crawford rip his clothes off with his teeth? Decisions... decisions...  
  
Finally he decided that having his clothes ripped off with Crawford's teeth was always sexy. Too bad the silly American didn't let him set up the video camera, he was such a prude. Those thoughts in mind, Schuldig waltzed, humming, into the large master bedroom.   
  
He didn't see the oracle until it was too late.   
  
Schuldig hit the wall.   
  
"What the hell?"  
  
"Not now, Schuldig." Crawford growled, pulling a cream colored suit coat on and adjusting his tie. "Takatori just called, he needs me."  
  
The telepath was having a hard time comprehending the fact that his lover, his LOVER, had shoved him out of the way to take care of his boss.   
  
"But I need you!" The twenty-two-year old whined, dogging at his heels.   
  
"Yes," Crawford replied reasonably, "but Takatori pays me."  
  
"I can pay you!" Schuldig protested. He then froze. "Wait, what does Takatori need you for?"   
  
"Don't be perverted." Crawford grabbed his cell phone and wallet up from the dining room table, opened the door, and slammed it.   
  
  
=================================================================  
  
  
Damn it all, why did they have to dope Farfarello up to the gills every night after dinner? Didn't they realize that Schuldig might someday need him? Didn't Crawford foresee that?  
  
Damn American.  
  
Damn. Damn. Damn.  
  
"Damn it, wake up." Schuldig shook Farfarello's collar and slapped his face. The Irish man's single eye rolled in the back of his head, his lips moved a little. "C'mon you crack addict, Schu-Schu needs a hug."  
  
"...k..ee...p...slap..pin..g..me...I...like...it..." Farfarello mumbled.  
  
Schuldig made a sound of annoyance and dropped the albino psychopath. He stepped back, retreating to a far corner of the padded cell. He didn't understand why Farfarello always complained, the cushioned walls felt comfortable under his back. It was like a giant bed... except the pads never absorbed any heat and Farfarello wasn't allowed to have any blankets, as he might strangle himself or someone else with it. And it was always a little dark, musky, it smelt of blood, especially around the areas where the pads absorbed the gore. No windows, no television... Okay, Schuldig could understand why Farfarello complained.   
  
Using whatever remaining strength he had, Farfarello pulled himself into a sitting position, trying to get as comfortable as he could under the restrains of his white jacket. He crossed his legs and stared calmly at Schuldig, as if having a hysteric pissed off German barge into his cell was something that happened all the time.  
  
Lately, it did.   
  
"Crawford left me." Schuldig whined.  
  
An eyebrow raised under the eye patch. "Did he?"  
  
"...not like left me, left me, like...left me." Schuldig corrected.   
  
"Oh." Farfarello pretended to understand the red head. Of course he didn't, Schuldig was, after all, completely out of his mind. He had to be, he was dating Crawford. "Your eye is swollen."   
  
"Bar fight." Came the quick reply.   
  
Farfarello blinked, "No..."  
  
For a wacko, very little slide by his Irish friend. Schuldig smiled sardonically, rubbing his hands together. Didn't the heater get down to Farfarello's cell? It was freezing. "Maybe not. It doesn't matter though, does it? It probably even hurts God."  
  
"It hurts you." Farfarello whispered. "God laughs."  
  
Schuldig thought about his whole relationship with Crawford. "God must be laughing his ass off," he decided. His companion didn't reply. Schuldig stared, then reached forward, shaking him. "Wake up."   
  
"Huh?"  
  
"We're having an intimate conversation here."  
  
"Oh."   
  
"Sometimes Crawford gets mad. He's a fighter, we both know that. A boxer first, a business man second. We aren't fooled by those silk Armani suits, he likes to throw a punch as much as any man. He's just dignified about it." Schuldig explained.   
  
"Yes." Farfarello replied, they both knew Crawford liked to take his anger out on a human body, and when he couldn't find a target he turned on his teammates. Mostly Farfarello, who took it with stride as part of his punishment and quest to shame God. "Can I have a knife?"  
  
"Here." Schuldig pulled out his Swiss army and set it on the Irishman's legs. "It's not abuse. We're assassins, we can't say we're abused. Hah, could you see that, Farf? Let's call a hotline." He placed his thumb and pinkie finger up to his ear, like a telephone. "Hi, my name is Schuldig, no, I don't have a last name. Yes, I'm a man. My boyfriend hits me. No, this isn't a prank call. Occupation? I kill people for a living. Did I mention I was psychic? Click." He put the invisible phone down.   
  
Farfarello found that just about as interesting as staring down at the knife in his lap. In the end, the knife staring won out. "Can you untie me?"   
  
"Me. Me. Me. It's always about you, Farf." Schuldig grumbled. He picked himself up and walked behind the man. The straps binding him slowly became unlatched. "The make-up sex is usually good."   
  
"What's make-up sex?" Farfarello's hands were free, he greedily reached for the weapon.   
  
Schuldig patted him on the head as he walked back to his seat. "I'll tell you when you're older, honey." He flopped down. "How's my eye look?"  
  
"Purple with a bit of blue."   
  
"That bad?"  
  
The two blades unfolded from their red sheath. The hilt slowly turned in Farfarello's scarred hands. "I sun burn."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"You bruise." Farfarello said. "I sun burn."  
  
Schuldig blinked. "What's your point?"  
  
"I stay out of the sun." 


	3. Farfarello's Weekly Therapy

Schuldig remained with Farfarello for another few hours. He watched the psychopath play with his knife and eventually drop it, sedatives making an encore in his blood stream and knocking him off. When Farfarello went slack, Schuldig pulled him back into the arms of the straight jacket with the care a parent took in pulling up the covers of a child's blanket. Then he just sat there, in the other corner and stared, eventually nodding off himself.   
  
The padded walls did feel comfortable, once he got used to them.  
  
A rectangle of light opened up on the cushion floor, hitting Schuldig and startling him into wakefulness. He winced at the intrusion, emerald eyes unfocused and dull, set upon the imposing shadow blocking the door. "...Crawford?"  
  
His cream colored suit was wrinkled. His glasses no longer sat properly on his face; now they leaned at an angle as if the metal had been bent. He stood in a slump, favoring his right knee. As Schuldig adjusted to the brightness, he could make out a slight sneer of pain marring his leader's usually stoic face.   
  
"Craw..."  
  
Crawford's hands reached out and wrapped around Schuldig's wrist. The oracles movements were a blur, he crossed the room and yanked Schuldig to his feet, silent and animal-like.   
  
Booze, the smell of bourbon and rum, white collar drinks, sweltered off of his American lover in sweaty droplets. Schuldig choked and pulled away, ready to pull forth a strand of insults and complaints, but was silenced by Crawford's lips, roughly smashing against his mouth. Their teeth bucked, Crawford pressing, Schuldig resisting.   
  
A moan escaped the German, and it wasn't one of pleasure.   
  
In the cell, Crawford's arms looped around Schuldig's waist, Schuldig was surprised to fell a tremor under the sturdy grasp. Lust, he wondered, or something else. They bumped hips, more of a colliding smash than a melting, merging of two bodies, the bottom of Schuldig's rib cage was grinded against the back of Crawford's holstered gun.   
  
'Rough day at the office?' The all-knowing, undaunting voice of the Mastermind teased. 'What's the matter, Craw-daddy, Takatori wanted to be on top again?'  
  
"Shut up." Crawford growled, breaking lips.   
  
Schuldig's smirk drained. Crawford wasn't in the teasing mood and Schuldig would pay for it. Damn, why'd he have to say... think... anything? Big mouth, big mind, big consequences.   
  
Crawford wasn't going to be gentle tonight. And the red head was getting tired of pretending he liked to be man-handled, beaten, before intercourse.   
  
A fist wrapped around the back of Schuldig's head, snatching his hair in a painful tight hold. Lips met again. For a second, Schuldig's eyes watered. Than he remembered, he deserved it. Big mouth, big mind. He deserved everything he got.   
  
He was slowly led out of the cell. The door slammed shut and locked. Two pairs of feet shuffled across the floor, one marching, one half-dragging. The door to Crawford's door creaked open, but didn't close. The bed springs began to move, Schuldig's pale whisper "...no..." echoed down the hall.  
  
Nagi could be heard coming down the stairs, into the living room, turning the television on, the volume up.   
  
In the abandoned darkness, a ember eye watched and burned.   
  
  
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The next morning Schuldig had to remind himself that he didn't cry. He didn't cry. He didn't...  
  
He was Schuldig, the guilty one. The reaper of honey and innoncent thoughts. The pervert in the red convertible that stalked young women and smiling, lead them to the slaughter. The bodyguard of one of the most wicked men in Japan. The fuck toy of Germany. The king of wet dreams world wide the...  
  
Very upset telepath.  
  
Schuldig leaned his face towards the shower head, letting the water pour down his neck and shoulders. All that fell across his body to the white floor was from the faucet, not him. His face burned, his breath gasped quick in his chest, but he, like a good villian, refused to cry.   
  
Another rough night with Crawford, he was left sore and bloody. It was hard to reap his own sexual pleasure when he was being torn apart, when his lover became so wild and involved in his own needs that he banged the other's skull into the headboard and didn't notice.   
  
When, after he finished, he made Schuldig get up, help him change the bed covers and lay still in his corner, back turned to the still panting, still hungry young man. Closed and isolated.  
  
Something had happened that night that really upset Crawford. Schuldig couldn't begin to guess what, and it wasn't like he could pluck anything out of his lover's mind. Crawford was a blank to him. A mental wall that had once been so refreshing, so silent and stable, but was now beginning to drive him crazy.   
  
Schuldig, who was used to knowing everything, every secret, every whisper, every thought, every redundant detail, was lost and in the dark when it came to Crawford.   
  
The German sniffed and put his weight on the shower wall. His hands lifted to play with the waterproof CD player attached to the support railing. One of Nagi's CD's was in, some classic gothic cross dressing Japanese band that was considered dark and morbid in this country, but would have be considered Sunday morning Show Tunes in his native Berlin. Sissy stuff, J-Pop. This country needed a wake-up call, at least where the music industry was concerned. If anyone wanted Schuldig's opinion, every punk wannabe artist should be required to include the words RAPE, MONKEY, and FESTERING CORPSE in every song of their next album.  
  
"Pansy fuck boy bands." He mumbled, thumbing through the song list. "Still stuck in the 80's... fucking techno... an entire generation of candy asses..."  
  
Where was he?  
  
Oh yes, Crawford.  
  
Asshole.  
  
Schuldig supposed it had been the silence that drawn him to his leader. That and his natural instinct to screw his way as high as possible on the social ladder set him into seducing the American. He stopped with Takatori though, he knew he could, he knew the old perv went for those sort of things, but he had given up that life style a long time ago.  
  
But the silence...  
  
The refreshing silence. Like a breath of fresh air, no, a life line. Schuldig remembered meeting Crawford for the first time, and for the first time hearing nothing but the sound of HIS own thoughts, HIS own breathing. And he was in love.  
  
Frightfully in love.  
  
Schuldig reached for the scrub brush and soaped it up with body lotion. He set the sponge on his shoulders and was caught by the sight of a fresh bruise running across his collar bone.   
  
A memory of Crawford slamming his hands below Schuldig's neck to brace himself as he grinded into him, inside of him, flashed across Schuldig's mind.   
  
Painful. Schuldig dropped the brush and lowered himself to the shower floor. His quick breath rose to his throat and contracted painfully. He bowed his head, red locks drew a curtain around his face.   
  
When did things get so complicated?  
  
The water grew cold.   
  
  
========================================================================  
  
  
"Don't get over-zealous." Crawford warned, watching the pale boy stretch across the matt.   
  
"Me? Over-zealous?" Farfarello's mutilated lips twisted into a rare smile. "Never." He began to bounce from foot to foot.   
  
The oracle snorted and finished wrapping his hands. They were in the gym attached to their penthouse, a small training dojo Schwartz had converted when they moved in there; they had bought the rights to the apartment's top floor swimming pool and weight room.   
  
The walls were Plexiglas, newly polished, and streaming of dusky orange from the fading afternoon sun. It bathed Farfarello's ivory white skin an odd honey color, it set sinister shadows across the dark contours of Crawford's face, it bounced off his glasses and glowed. The floor was mostly padding, a fighting arena with a little room left on the side for a weight set, punching bag, and treadmill.   
  
The punching bag was Crawford's, though he rarely used it, the treadmill and weight set was Nagi's, or was suppose to be. Try as he might, Crawford couldn't motivate the computer genius into working out on a regular schedule.   
  
Nagi could just as well levitate an attacker and twist his body into a pretzel than have to touch him, thank you, he didn't need physical training. If he had trouble in school, where he was forbidden to use his powers, well... he could run very fast when he needed to.  
  
"There's a safety word, Farfarello." Crawford warned, "Remember it."   
  
The psychopath nodded.  
  
"Mouth."   
  
A sigh ran through the youth's lips. He dropped his shadow dance and approached his leader, jaw lowering. Crawford pressed his fingers against Farfarello's face and examined. A long moment passed, Crawford looked ready to step back, the tension in Farfarello's body slacked. Then, "Wait. Tongue, lift it."  
  
Farfarello wanted to roll his eye.   
  
His tongue lifted and hit the roof of his mouth. Crawford snorted, "Drop it." Farfarello's lips shut. "...Farfarello." A saliva drenched razor blade was spit into Crawford's awaiting hand. It was cast aside. "Alright. Are you ready?"  
  
This was what Schwartz called 'Farfarello's Weekly Therapy.' An hour long free style with the group's leader. A tension reliever for both of them, it exercised any excess energy and aggression Farfarello had pent up inside of him from missions or lack thereof, mostly it was used to keep him from going stir crazy between cell time.   
  
The fights had yet to have gotten out of hand. Farfarello and Crawford never went at each other at full strength, nothing was ever broken, cut, or bruised too heavily, they were never really aggressive. Crawford could predict most of Farfarello's moves and Farfarello could react instantly to anything Crawford threw out at him.  
  
They were evenly matched.  
  
Were begin the primary word.  
  
"You're going a little rough today." Crawford noted. He dodged a knife cut to his shoulder with a smirk and raised his leg to tag Farfarello on the pelvis. The Irish man countered and grasped the other's shin, ready to flip him over.  
  
Farfarello thought about the shower he missed that morning because Schuldig used all the hot water.   
  
How easy it would have been to tighten his grip on Crawford's ankle and snap it like a chicken bone.  
  
A fist scraped across his cheek and threw him into a stumble. "...and you seem distracted." Crawford added.  
  
"Couldn't sleep last night, Schuldig was screaming too loud." Farfarello muttered. He picked himself up and began to circle around Crawford.   
  
Crawford made his hands into fists, "I could up your medication so that you would be too oblivious to hear him, Farfarello."   
  
"You could fuck him so he doesn't scream, Crawford." The lunatic snapped. He dodged a punch and blocked another.   
  
"Don't confuse the noises Schuldig makes for pain, that's just the way some men are." He threw out another punch, a second, then landed a jab in Farfarello's gut. The younger psychic hunched over for a second, schooled his breath, and kicked out, easily sweeping Crawford aside.   
  
"I don't understand pain. Or pleasure." Farfarello whispered. He tilted his head and waited for Crawford to stand up. "But I'm not stupid."  
  
"You don't understand love or intercourse either, Farfarello. You're still a virgin, I know it. You can't understand the difference, what some people do in certain situations." They exchanged blows, punch for punch, kick for kick, both rocked back and ended up with one knee on the matt.   
  
A loop-sided sneer twisted across Farfarello's face, "...like beat up men weaker than them?"   
  
Crawford's fist split Farfarello's lip. "Watch it."  
  
Farfarello stepped back and tasted the blood. "I've been watching it. Blood. Pain. You're bad."  
  
The circled again. "This from a man who would get off mutilating his lover while he fucked them. From a man that would find intercourse mixed with amputation erotic. Don't you dare lecture me, Farfarello."   
  
A flare, an emotion he couldn't put his finger on, but related closely to anger, rage, like that feeling he had when he found his family in... Farfarello's heart fluttered and he growled, "I would never hurt Schuldig."  
  
Crawford barked a laugh, "Now you sound as if you were in love with him."  
  
"Do I? Are you? In love."   
  
"My interest in him is waning, to be honest, he reminds me of a cheap whore. A quick thrill that gets boring fast." The words were spoken without thought, Crawford's eyes diluted. Is that what he really thought about Schuldig?   
  
His snap dragon.   
  
That was enough for Farfarello.   
  
It was like seeing his parents still, unmoving, and bloody all over again. Except this time, God was standing right in front of him as flesh.   
  
"Farfarello..."  
  
Farfarello regretted having a padded matt underneath his feet as he lunged and tackled, fingers clawing at Crawford's throat like a wild animal. The matt broke their fall, he could have cracked some precious bones if it had been a hard floor. He could have crushed Crawford's skull or snapped his back in half.   
  
Oh well, he'd have to be happy with strangling. 


	4. Matthew 10:41

Schuldig staggered.   
  
"...what's your problem?" Nagi turned to regard his teammate. After taking an hour long shower, Schuldig had finally crawled downstairs and slithered into the kitchen. A moment later he toppled over, knocking the toaster and blender into the sink, gripping his chest as if the heart caged inside threatened to stop or explode.   
  
Nagi's frown of irritation evaporated into a gasp of concern as he caught the pained expression on the German's face. "Schuldig?"  
  
Misty jade eyes turned upwards, "...Farf...Crawford..."  
  
The Oracle had sent out a red alert of panic and fury into Schuldig's mind, it exploded like a pipe bomb.   
  
Struck with a sudden understanding, Nagi switched from running towards Schuldig, and dashed towards the door. Still shaking with pain, Schuldig followed. Nagi took the stairs to the top floor three at a time, Schuldig had to drag himself up, pausing every few steps to shake his head and hiss a curse in German.   
  
Images filled the teenager's mind. Crawford's throat and chest split open under Farfarello's blades. Crawford's head dangling by the bangs in Farfarello's clenched knuckles. Crawford stapled to the wall in a twisted cruxfication parody with Farfarello standing before him, madly mumbling statements from the New Testiment.   
  
"...He who receives a prophet because he is a prophet shall receive a prophet's reward, and he who receives a righteous man because he is a righteous man shall receive a righteous man's reward..."   
  
In his urgency, Nagi blew open the doors to the top floor gymnasium.  
  
"Farfarello!" First Nagi screamed.  
  
Then Schuldig charged in, "FARF!"  
  
"So it will be at the close of the age. The angels will come out and separate the evil from..." The mad man whispered as he continued to choke the blue tinted neck of his leader.   
  
Farfarello felt a telekinetic grasp wrap around his body and sighed. He flew into the opposite wall, barely missing the window glass. At the force Nagi threw him, he probably would have gone through.   
  
Schuldig fell upon Crawford, fingers groping for a pulse, clawing at eyes to see if the iris would dilate. Crawford's back arched suddenly, he released a roar of a gasp. Schuldig sprang backwards in shock, his body became numb from the conflicting mixture of panic and relief.   
  
"Brad..."  
  
A fist buried sharp white knuckles into his face.   
  
It didn't take Crawford long to regain his composure.  
  
Nagi gapped. Even though he stood a good distance away from the Oracle, he took a few fearful steps back as Crawford climbed to his feet.   
  
Schuldig lay on the floor, one hand cupped over his nose, catching the blood that slowly seeped down. His eyes lowered, half lidded, a smile pulled at his jaw. Crawford was okay. 'Damn you, Farfarello.'  
  
"...Lock...him...up..." Crawford gasped, he hadn't captured his breath yet. Nagi froze. "NOW."  
  
Farfarello returned to his feet with ease. The blow was enough to knock out a normal man, but Farfarello didn't feel pain. He stepped towards Crawford than paused, amber eye roaming on to the curled form of Schuldig. His mind slowly equated what happened. He attacked Crawford... Schuldig was punished...  
  
Righteous.  
  
He let Nagi take his arm and docilely walked back to his cell.   
  
  
*  
  
  
Schuldig, with a metal triangle wrapped over the center of his face, wanted to get stoned stupid, drunk retarded, and fucked comatose.   
  
He climbed into his clubbing clothes, a pair of outrageous skin tight leopard print pants. A frilly beige Victoria shirt and heavy cream brown leather jacket. Schuldig ran his hair under the sink and on a whim, took Farfarello's bleach from the counter and fired his head up.  
  
An hour later, he emerged looking like a sexed up, dirty blonde, battered house wife. He passed a mirror on his way to his room and gave his reflection a wink, "Hey sexy."   
  
He just needed a purple hat with a green feather.   
  
Hey, the fading black eye and broken nose made him look manly.  
  
"Sigh." Schuldig slipped into his room in search of his wallet and car keys.   
  
"Crawford wants you to stay inside tonight." A calm voice informed from the entertainment system. Nagi crouched on the floor, back towards the German, he shifted through Schuldig's collection of PS2 games, making a mess.  
  
Schuldig crossed his arms, "You should ask before you steal." He sounded more nasal than usual.  
  
"You stole it first." He replied.   
  
"Are we still talking about video games or did the conversation switch over to your virginity?"   
  
"Bwah-ha, see Nagi laugh." He pulled out a disc, mumbled 'found it' and turned around. His squeaked, "What the hell did you do to your hair?"  
  
Schuldig smiled. "You like?"  
  
"No."  
  
Schuldig gave him the finger.  
  
Nagi stood up, "Are you going to stay in?" He sounded a bit desperate, he didn't want to face Crawford's wrath because Schuldig was being an ass. "We can play some games...or...whatever."   
  
He found his keys. Now for the wallet. "Naggles, it would take an act of Wild Horses and Naked Lesbians to keep me here." Schuldig paused and searched the pockets of his jacket. He found his wallet.   
  
"Schu..."  
  
"Ja!"  
  
*  
  
  
The Hole was the cheapest gay bar in Tokyo's red district. A disease filled slum where men met to do one thing... usually on the bar tables, occasionally on top of the karaoke machine. The Hole was the place desperate, depressed young men came to be gang raped.   
  
Schuldig loved this hell hole.   
  
He sat at the bar staring at the puddle next to his drinking glass, wondering if it was from a spill of another drink or something else. Before his mind could come up with some sarcastic observation, a leathery hand came down around his waist and whispered, "Why don't you lick it and find out?"  
  
Schuldig studied the man and his mask of wrinkles. He shook his head in a way that sent his temporary blonde hair falling seductively over his shoulders, "Are you reading my thoughts?"   
  
"I know what you want, baby." This guy had to be at least sixty.  
  
"Scram, old man. I'm too rough a ride for you." Schuldig smirked, feeling his old nasty self again. "I wouldn't want to throw off your pace maker."  
  
The man drew back, alarmed. Then snarled, "I'm not interested in broken bruises anyway, rag doll."  
  
Rag doll... Schuldig watched him go with a flat expression. Rag dolls were worn out hookers or junkies. Broken porcelain. Rag doll...  
  
Crawford called him Snap Dragon.  
  
"Whew! That guy was just nasty!" A drunken snigger whistled beside him. "Didja see that? His ass hung to his knees. Holy... Hey, waiter, two Charles Caps."   
  
Ass to his knees, hmm? The smile returned to the German's face. A drink was slide next to his empty glass. He placed his lips to the rim and tested the acid. Not bad.   
  
"Hey..." Schuldig asked suddenly. "You want to--"  
  
The drunk beside him finished, "--get a room?"  
  
Schuldig twirled around in his seat to face him, laughing. "Ja..."  
  
He froze.  
  
The drunk flew backwards.  
  
"SCHWARTZ!?"  
  
"KUDOH???" 


	5. Don't you look stupid?

Like cowboys facing off in a cheesy, low budget western, the German mindwhore and Japanese playboy glared each other down with equal expressions of horror and amusement. Finally, Yohji, who was suddenly painfully sober, rubbed at the edge of his nose and graciously asked, "What's with the hair? Get in a fight with a bleach bottle?"  
  
Schuldig's lip immediately curled up one side of his face, not lacking his usual sadistic smoothness he icily returned Yohji's question with one of his own. "What's the matter, kitty? Got bored with Fujimaya's brain dead sister and decided to come here and try something that moved?"   
  
Yohji's color drained and for a moment Schuldig was filled with a sense of sick pleasure, a temporary warmth that drove away the sting Crawford's fist left on his face and heart. His mouth opened for another jab but snapped shut in agony as Yohji suddenly moved forward and gave his injured face a good hard poke.   
  
"What happened here? I thought you psychic guys could predict bullets and dodge and teleport and..." Balinese urped feeling his last two drinks coming back up on him. He offered a dull smile and forced the bile down. "...and throw blue fireballs from yer ass!"  
  
Jade eyes widen as Schuldig was forced to catch the damn drunkard by the shoulder or have him fall head first into his lap. A position he normally wouldn't have denied to anyone but Dipshit Fucking Kudoh. "No, kitty, that was William Wallace. Or the Irish. Or something. Fuck, I don't know, Farfie rented that movie and fast forward to all of the horse killing parts."  
  
He might have gone on but was suddenly blessed with a bemused stare from his enemy indicating that he, Schuldig, had either grown a second head, sprouted wings, announced that he was the One, the Way, the Light of Salvation, or some other spunky metaphor relating to those kind of odd...looks.   
  
"William...who?" The Eurasian asked, then, as if suddenly noticing that he was half slumped against Schuldig's chest, drew back with a meep. "Stop trying to control my body!"   
  
Yohji let out a wail of a nervous laugh to fan out any homoerotic indications their previous stance might have brought to mind as if anyone in the bar cared or weren't already engaged in such indications or worse themselves. Yohji slapped the bar table for good measure, getting his hand sloshed in that mysterious yellow liquid Schuldig had been studying earlier.  
  
"So," He asked after a bit, "are we going to kill each other or what?"  
  
Schuldig shrugged, "How about we fuck like monkeys and just say we tried to kill each other? Winner's the one who screws the other unconscious and leaves him on a city bench with his underwear worn inside out."  
  
Yohji seemed to agree with this. "Then... we should probably head to a dark alley! Bartender, our checks please!"  
  
*  
  
Fall was here. Schuldig almost didn't realize it until he found himself trotting down some nameless park with the dry leaves breaking under his feet. He used to take walks like this all the time, always alone, always after a fight with Crawford. But lately... he just didn't feel like leaving the house at all. No matter how bad he and Crawford had fought.  
  
Schuldig didn't even want to get out of bed anymore...  
  
Yohji walked solemnly beside him. The air was crisp and stale, their breaths came out in long, thin clouds. Even so, the former detective had his jacket, a wine colored leather, off his body and slung over one shoulder. Schuldig, in his warm clothing, still felt a chill and wondered if Kudoh was really so vain and idiotic that he would just walk around in the freezing night like that because it looked cool.   
  
"I like the cold," Yohji admitted suddenly.   
  
Schuldig sensed more in that statement and turned to study him. Their pace slowed. Yohji's expression had turned from one of somber thoughtfulness to bitter amusement. He turned and smiled at his sworn enemy.  
  
"I figure... I'm going to be burning in hell someday, so I should enjoy the cold as much as I can now."   
  
"...with reasoning skills like that, you must be related to Farfie."  
  
Yohji blinked, honestly lost. "Who's Farfie?" His elbow hit Schuldig's arm. "Ex-girlfriend?"  
  
"Who's Farfie??" Green lines of disgust ran down the German's face. "Farfie? BESERKER? Scary guy with eye patch? Kill God, mutilate, hurt, hurt, PAIN. You know... Farfie?"  
  
Obliviously running into his archenemies hadn't sobered Dipshit Kudoh that much. The playboy's soft round lips formed quietly into a circle. "...oh! That guy with the acid and priest fetish! His name's Farfie?"  
  
"...Farfarello."  
  
"Berserker. Farfarello. You Americans have weird names. And weird nick names."   
  
Schuldig's dark red eyebrow, the eyebrow thats color no longer matched his pathetically dyed hay blonde hair, lifted and twitched. "Americans? Why do you CHINKS always think we're all American?"  
  
Yohji flew back, outraged. "Who're you calling a Chink?"  
  
Schuldig exploded. "There's another continent besides North America on this GOD FORSAKEN planet, you know. It's called Europe... and Africa! And...and... What about Mexicans! They're from North America too! And...and... Canadians! HA. I could be Canadian!" He stormed away from Yohji, up an incline that led to a few trees and a sandbox a few yards off.   
  
Yohji struggled after him, now very confused. "You're Canadian?"  
  
"NO!" Schuldig screamed and fell down upon the wet, dying grass. "I'm German. JA? Notice the hideous German ACCENT. JA???"  
  
Yohji flopped down beside him and rested his arms on his knees. What was going on? It was a Saturday night. He could be fucking some nameless sex addict raw on a diseased karaoke stage, and he was stuck here in some freezing park having a heated discussion on Caucasian nationalities with the pervert of Schwartz. "...I always thought you were from Brooklyn."  
  
"What?" Schuldig's voice did an accurate impression of a hissing rabid cat.  
  
Yohji held his hands up, "Joke. Joke. I'm not that stupid. But I thought Oracle and Beser...Far...Farfar... uh, Berserker, were Americans."  
  
Schuldig sighed, "Farf's Irish."  
  
"...ah." By then Yohji had lost all interest in caring about wherever these psychic annoyances had come from - hey, a foreigner was a foreigner, right? - and begun searching his pockets for his cigarette stash. "So, what's with the beauty marks?"  
  
Schuldig pulled his own cancer stick from his coat pocket and stuck it in his mouth. "Do you know how many annoying Nippon's come up to me each week and ask in broken English: 'hello, may I very much try to practice English with you?' You think my accent's bad in YOUR language, you should hear me try to American it."   
  
"Your face, Schwartz. What happened to your face?"  
  
Schuldig glared, "Why? Jealous someone was able to make a hit on me and you weren't? Don't worry, kitty, you don't have any competition." His tone was mocking, a perfect mask to the nervousness that knotted in the pit of his stomach.   
  
The wind blew and they both felt cold.  
  
Yohji shrugged, "Heh. I just want to know what can hit someone who moves as fast as lighting." There was a perverted follow up to that comment, but Yohji wanted to maintain some semblance of seriousness and not persuade it.  
  
"I may fuck fast, but all parties come out satisfied, pretty boy." Schuldig made the comment for him.  
  
The wind and the cold was irritating his healing injuries.  
  
"You're dancing around the question." The Eurasian pointed out.   
  
His blood ran cold when Schuldig was suddenly towering over him, body moving with that inhuman speed that caught him and his team off-guard time and time again. The taller assassin smirked, smile broken on his purple face, though not lacking any of the usual cruelness Yohji was used to seeing on the battle field. In less than a second Schuldig had morphed from the temporal drinking/bitching buddy into Schwartz's deadly Mastermind.  
  
Yohji should have realized he was playing with fire and would be burned.  
  
"Balinese," Schuldig responded, "all we ever do is dance."  
  
Yohji's mind tried to form a battle plan and then...  
  
Schuldig was gone.  
  
An unlit cigarette laid un Yohji's stomach. The playboy studied the butt before drawing it into his fingers and pulling out his lighter. The silver torch lit and made the embers flow. Yohji let the noxious smoke fill his lungs. He breathed out.  
  
"...you didn't even let me tell you what I was doing in that shit hole." He muttered to the emptiness.   
  
*  
  
Nagi tried to trace Farfarello's outline in the pitch black cell square. "Farfie?" He whispered.   
  
He received a grunt in reply, a soft, animal-like snort of a person just awaking and raising their head to follow the noise that aroused them. Nagi heard Farfarello shuffle into a sitting position, difficult and clumsy with the straight jacket on, and breathed normally.  
  
"Farfie... with... Schuldig and Crawford... who's the bad guy...?"  
  
The Irish man's amber eye widen. How amusing. To come to him with such a question. As if he was the voice of reason in their four person circus of insanity. His stomach growled and he remembered he was hungry.  
  
"...Farfie..." Nagi pleaded again.  
  
"Stupid Nagi..." He answered, his force strained as he flopped back onto his side, "...this story doesn't have a good guy."   
*  
  
Schuldig trudged up the stairs to their penthouse apartment feeling empty. Here he had snuck out against Crawford's better wishes to get sloshed, doped, and fucked, and he had done neither. Neither! And he had a near-intelligent, near-decent, conversation with a member of Weiss.  
  
He felt dirty.  
  
Fumbling with the keys, Schuldig plotted his course through the apartment. Pass the kitchen and dining room, to the shower, to his warm snuggly bed. The door flew open and he would have smiled had he not quickly realized that both his hands were still in his pockets vainly grabbing for his...  
  
"Consider yourself lucky that Este considers you a valuable memeber of its psychic force and I therefore cannot *destroy* you for your insolence." Crawford, fingers wrapped around the door handle, calmly reminded.   
  
Schuldig gawked as he was pulled.   
  
A hand wrapped around the back of his poorly dyed hair and he felt something rip.   
  
The last thing he saw before everything faded to gray was one of Farfarello's jackets and a syringe full of Farfarello's heavy medication on the table next to them.   
  
God, he felt stupid. 


	6. No Exit

The next evening Schuldig found himself safely locked indoors trying to figure out how to dislocate his arm.  
  
Nagi stood over him, thin arms crossed around his waist, expression borderline between sympathetic and amused. "You know... I would pity you if I didn't think you'd deserve it."  
  
Living with Farfarello had given Schuldig reason to muse over all the advantages and disadvantages of being confined in a straight jacket. Previously he had been able to outweigh the pros over the cons - straight jackets were fairly fashionable in this post-gothic era, they looked comfy, and dagnabbit, walking around... say the mall, bound and gagged from mouth to ankle could make even Bill Gates (or Nagi) look like a badass.  
  
At the moment the inability to raise his arm and flip the younger assassin off shattered all the standards of 'coolness and straight jacket' to the grave yard.   
  
"And your hair is turning green." Nagi also pointed out.  
  
Schuldig's brow knit together and he began to plot his revenge.  
  
Beside him, Farfarello cackled at the television. The two murderers were seated in the living room, on the floor because Straight-Jacket-Schu kept sliding off the couch, watching a video. Farfarello had slithered in less than half an hour prior with a movie. He had snatched the remote control from under Schuldig's toes, tossed it across the room, and attacked the VCR.  
  
Now with a knife twirling absently in one hand, he engaged in a lively conversation with the television.  
  
"What floats?" Asked a man on the screen.  
  
"Small rocks."   
  
"Bread."  
  
"Churches!" Farfarello crowed.   
  
Even footsteps vibrated down the hall, causing Schuldig to straighten. Crawford rounded the corner, adjusting the collar of his dress coat so that it was perfectly vertical. He cast a disdainful look towards the living room.  
  
"Um...uh...churches!" The television proclaimed.  
  
Farfarello cackled.   
  
Nagi rolled his eyes and walked away.   
  
"Are you staying in tonight?" Crawford asked before the teen was able to brush by him. Schuldig glowered at the question, knowing full well that their leader was shoving Nagi's freedom in his face in his own sneaky Crawford way.   
  
Nagi gave him a flat look. "No. I'm meeting some friends at a cyber cafe. I should be back by one."   
  
Simultaneously, Mastermind and Berserker turned their heads around and whispered, "Nagi has friends?" The teenager flipped them off in reply.   
  
The American nodded, "Farfarello and I are leaving in a few minutes. I want a voice message if you're going to be any later. Keep your cell phone on." Nagi made a grunt of acknowledgement and continued on to his room. "Farfarello, let's go."  
  
Before he stood up, the pale haired psychic turned his blade on Schuldig and traced the knife edge along the German's throat. "Want a dedication?"   
  
"Carve Craw-bitch into somebody's stomach for me." Schuldig whispered and nipped at the metal.   
  
Farfarello stood up with a smirk tugging at one corner of his scarred lips, the closest the madman could get to a grin without being drenched in blood and carnage.   
  
Crawford opened the front door for him, "Schuldig. I trust you won't go out tonight."   
  
Farfarello paused to listen in the hall.  
  
And Schuldig glowered.   
  
"Hm," the American's head tilted to the slide slightly, characteristic for snotty amusement. "in that vestment I suppose you can't. So I won't worry."  
  
Schuldig waited to scream in rage until he was sure his lover was out of the building and safe from any satisfaction he might get in knowing how much humiliation he was suffering.   
  
*  
  
"Where's Mastermind?"  
  
The question didn't have its desired affect, nothing surprised or slowed Farfarello down when there was blood to drain. If anything, it pissed the Berserker off more and before he knew it, Kudoh Youji was on his knees with his back arched from the weight Farfarello was placing on it and a butterfly knife pressed against his throat.   
  
Hidaka Ken ran across the office space, intent on getting to a cornered Omi who had just reported being held hostage by the American Oracle and his handgun via headset a few minutes ago. "Balinese!" He barked. "Quit playing around!"  
  
Youji's mouth opened to answer but clamped into a shiver as Farfarello's lips and heavy breath suddenly brushed upon his ear.  
  
"Asking about Mastermind?" He panted, veins flooded with bloodlust, "Why?"  
  
The piano wire lashed out and wrapped around Farfarello's wrist. He smiled and released the kitten, tugging him around with the connected line so that he stumbled to his feet and for one sick moment looked like he was dancing around the Irishman before crashing into his chest.   
  
"Oh. You know," Youji released more line and twisted the wire around Farfarello's neck. "its just not the same without that annoying German nasal."  
  
A too-wise, too-sane amber gaze studied him. "You sound like you care..."  
  
"I could snap your head off your shoulders right now." Youji growled and proved his point by tightening the line, a circle of blood spurted from wrist and neck decorating both their faces.   
  
"So, why don't you?" Farfarello laughed and pulled back.   
  
Lazy emerald eyes widen to thin dots expecting to see Farfarello's body go creening in one direction while the head went spinning in the other. Instead he found himself tumbling backwards onto the floor, line slack.   
  
Farfarello let the blade he used to cut loose the wire from his wrist fall to the ground. He leapt onto Youji's stomach, his blood streamed down and covered the white assassin's face, blinding and drowning him.   
  
"Open your mouth, pretend its His blood." He whispered.  
  
Was he referring to God? Berserker was always referring to God.  
  
Warm, red, putrid. Youji gagged, his stomach twisted into knots of disgust.   
  
"Drink this," Farfarello cooed. "In memory of Me."  
  
Was he talking about Schuldig?  
  
Someone screamed his name in the far distance, the weight disappeared. Youji sat up, hands clawing at his face to remove the black scarlet carnage. He blinked and found Farfarello pressed against a corner, a leather clad figure pinning him down, katana abandon, beating senselessly into the assassin's pristine white face.   
  
For a moment Youji honestly believed he was going to throw-up.   
  
"Berserker." A stern voice beckoned from the office exit. Crawford stood in the doorway, gun hidden, hand raised up to the flickering neon lights studying a small, slightly bleeding knick on one of the knuckles. "It's time to go."  
  
Play time's over?  
  
He spoke in the tone of a mother calling a child in from kickball to wash up for dinner.   
  
Crawford's 'injured' hand snaked forward and snatched a steel arrow out of the air, discarding it to the side. Youji's head turned to spot Omi with his crossbow raised and trembling, and Ken, fists balled, standing at the other end of the exit.   
  
"Don't think so highly of yourselves." Crawford denounced.  
  
Weiss' fourth member flew across the room and rolled painfully about the bloody carpet. Farfarello, face purple with bruises, neck gushing blood, stood up and calmly marched towards the exit. He nursed his bleeding wrist with his tongue.   
  
Crawford took in his teammates injuries, eyebrows raised ever so slightly, then turned his gaze to the other assassins. "Until next time."   
  
Then they were gone.  
  
*  
  
"...Crawford, it's me. The cafe closed, we're taking the subway to Nagora's house. Don't worry, we aren't doing anything illegal... Not that it really matters. Just... some assholes on an on-line game are trying to take over our kingdoms. Yeah. Kingdoms. Don't ask. Anyway, Nagora lives in Kanota, so I'm going to be spending the night. My cell phone's on. Call you in the morning."   
  
*  
  
He listened to the message and pinched his temples. Great, not that he didn't approve of Nagi having a social life, especially when he could use it to rub in Schuldig's face, but... what about Schuldig?  
  
Snapdragon.  
  
The white glare of the hospital was beginning to irritate his vision. He had already removed his glasses and taken a few pain killers, but his stress level remained constant. He anticipated blood, but nothing in the future told him Farfarello was going to allow himself to get as cut up as he did.  
  
"Sir," one of Este's staff workers approached. She was a nurse lacking psychic abilities, only on the payroll because she was good at what she did, committed to her job, and bribable. A civilian. "Doctor Jinsa would like to keep him here overnight, you can come back and pick him up in the morning."  
  
Schuldig was home alone in a straight jacket.   
  
"That's fine. I'd like to stay a few more hours." He waved her off. "I assume he's out of surgery?"  
  
"Yes sir. We know that he heals very quickly, and though he claims to feel no pain, Doctor Jinsa would like to have him on pain medication and anti-inflammatories for the remainder of the week. I'm preparing a medical kit and directions on how to clean the wounds..."  
  
Living with Farfarello for almost six years and they thought he didn't know how to clean wounds? That was almost amusing.   
  
How many times did he leave Farfarello home alone in a straight jacket?  
  
"Can I see him now?"  
  
He would call the house but Schuldig wouldn't be able to answer.   
  
*  
  
Hands wrapped around the collar of his jacket. "Damn it, Kudoh, why do you always have to be so careless?"  
  
Quit playing around...  
...All we ever do is dance.   
  
Youji sighed and allowed his partner to throw him around the bedroom a few more times. Grimly, he knew that somewhere in the house Omi and Ken were mistaking the bangs and shouts for fucking. "Okay, stop, Aya."  
  
"Do you want to die?" The red head snarled, pushing him harder against the wall. "Is that it? Do you have a death wish?"  
  
"I said that's enough, Aya." He shoved him away and stomped towards their bed, hands fumbled in his pockets searching for a cigarette. Farfarello's blood remained dry on his face and for some reason, he didn't want to wash it off. "I messed up, okay? Don't vapor lock."   
  
Aya had to punch the dresser to keep from hitting his lover. "We're assassins, we don't mess up." He growled, his voice a glacier and ice, cracking.   
  
He remembered the bitch rant Ken spat at him as they dragged themselves home. Damn it, Youji, you were suppose to be with Omi, and damn it, you know to tell us when you're jumped by Berserker so we can help you and blah, blah, blah. Fuck off, Ken-Ken.  
  
Oh, Aya was still talking. "...smoke in here. And take a shower."  
  
For some reason he felt beaten. And not by that damned madman. Youji slide off the bed and grabbed his towel.  
  
"I'm setting the alarm. You're going to the clinic first thing in the morning. You probably got a disease from that freak."   
  
Farfie, huh? Youji stalled at the door and gathered enough energy to wink. "Aw, c'mon, Aya. Don't get jealous. It's not like I slept with him or anything." He grinned at the death glare and added, "Not yet anyway."  
  
Another gap cracked formed in their relationship, widening the canyon.  
  
*  
  
Crawford didn't realize he had nodded off until the gentle prod of a finger against his thigh woke him. Snorted in slight surprise he blinked and looked down at the bed-ridden psychic who in-turn observed him with a heavy lidded, heavy drugged gaze.   
  
"No Exit." Farfarello whispered.   
  
Bewildered, Crawford choose to respond with a raised eyebrow. Who knew how far gone Farfarello was in this state.  
  
The twenty-year-old heaved a sigh because it was painful to stay awake with the sedatives they gave him and the lacertian on his throat made talking difficult. "Sartre."  
  
Crawford removed his jacket and folded it up on his lap. "What about him?"  
  
His neck was outlined in black stitches. "We make our own hell. Do you love Schuldig?"   
  
"Of course." He responded without thinking, then blinked.   
  
One corner of Farfarello's mouth pulled upward, the closest he could come to a smile. Of course. "Then why..." He paused, "why aren't you with him?"   
  
The Irishman went still, eye dropping downwards, either from the drugs or exhaustion. Or maybe just defeat. He was done, it was time to take care of Schuldig.   
  
Crawford stood and found his car keys. 


	7. You're just jealous

Sometime in the middle of the night Schuldig had been able to worm across the living room and turn the television off with his toes. In the straight jacket he didn't have the reach to turn the power off the VCR Farfarello had left on to run into gray fuzz, and frankly... he was sick of all the noise. He didn't bother to crawl back onto the couch, instead collapsing against it, head angled against his shoulder, hair shadowing his face. Looking like a broken doll.  
  
Or a puppet without strings.  
  
Now the only color that dotted the lonely space was the two or three streams of city lights that snaked through the window blinds, highlighting random objects: the ash tray on the coffee table. Crawford's reading lamp. A corner of the book shelf. The apartment was too high up to hear the roar of the city. Nothing to remind Schuldig that anyone out there was still alive.  
  
And the walls were thick.   
  
Maybe, he thought somewhere between midnight and a nightmare, everyone left and died and I'm going to be stuck here alone until I fucking rot. Maybe that was Crawford's idea.  
  
Maybe Crawford really was sick of him and this evening antics; maybe this practical joke of a punishment had been played with more malice than Schuldig had originally picked up on. Maybe Crawford picked up Takatori on the way to the airport and was now on his way with Nagi and Farfarello for a week long vacation in Osaka. Maybe Crawford wanted to abandon him and, perfect timing, had a sudden hankering to see mommy and daddy in America.  
  
It was late, wasn't it? They should have been back by now. Nagi wasn't coming back, was he?  
  
Oh well, Schuldig almost said out loud - because when he said things out loud he wasn't so alone - at least I still have the flower shop.  
  
"...where the fuck did that come from?"   
  
Yohji Kudoh, huh? Schuldig was not falling for that sex pot. He wouldn't give that hormonal lunatic with a piano wire the satisfaction... the status of having the Mastermind's affection. Or passing thoughts. Nothing beyond maiming or raping anyway. He felt degraded enough giving Crawford a reason to brag about bedding the great German, he sure as hell wasn't about to extend the same pleasure to that bastard Kudoh.  
  
Schuldig drew his knees up to his chest the way he'd seen Farfarello do a thousand times before. It looked uncomfortable... but the tight ball actually seemed to grip at some of the despair in his stomach and hold it in.   
  
What was going on? It was way after midnight... had Crawford forgot him?   
  
He didn't like to be left alone for very long.  
  
He didn't like to be left alone to his own thoughts for very long.   
  
Crawford knew he didn't like to be left alone for very long.  
  
...Why didn't Crawford KNOW he didn't like to be left alone for very long?  
  
Schuldig buried his face in his knees and slipped into the nightmare.  
  
*  
  
Strong hands took him by the shoulders and drew him forward. This was a familiar sensation, but not familiar enough to alert the sleeping body on whether this was a 'good touch' or a 'bad touch.' Jade eyes peeked upon under heavy lids. His mind was filled with the smell of light cologne, Crawford's scent, only heavy enough to cover the stench of sweat, gunpowder, and blood. Subtle. Everything about Crawford was subtle.  
  
The tension in his shoulders gave way with the straps binding Farfarello's white jacket. Schuldig let loose a noise that was somewhere between a purr and a groan, he creened his neck.   
  
"Punishment's over." The American's words were familiar and laced with a bitter and amused irony. At the same time the words, the touch, was strangely soft. Unusual for Crawford. In one desperate, exhausted moment Schuldig allowed himself a lazy smile and felt safe in the Oracle's arms.   
  
Can we kiss and make-up and make all those bad, bad fights go away? Forever.  
  
They stood up together, Schuldig secure in Crawford's grasp, head buried under his leader, his lover's chin. The jacket slipped lifelessly to the floor. Crawford stroked Schuldig's back, murmured 'snapdragon' into his hair.  
  
What had come over the American to put him in such a gentle mood? Had he finally decided to off Abyssinian? Maybe he sedated previous his pissy mood by letting Farfarello take on and shred that Takatori brat, Bombay, into ribbons. Ha. That'd make anybody's day brighter.   
  
Maybe these stories really did have happy endings.  
  
Then Schuldig remembered that Crawford had left him alone in a straight jacket for nearly six hours. Then Schuldig remembered how much he hated fairy tales.  
  
Then Schuldig drew up his leg and kneed Crawford in the crotch.  
  
A slew of English and German erupted from both parties as they tore away from each other, filled with an indescribable rage, hatred, pain, and panic that neither could understand.   
  
Schuldig was the first to pull himself back into Japanese, arms waving wildly in an almost hysteric gesture, " --ist mir scheißegal -- YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE ME LIKE THAT FOR SIX FUCKING HOURS - DO YOU KNOW THE HUMILATION ---"  
  
Crawford charged forward with such force that his glasses slipped off the bridge of his nose. With one quick swiping gesture he seized the spectacles and cast them across the room. Schuldig was stuck dumb with shock, unable to move as one powerful hand clawed into his shoulder, as the skin on Crawford's knuckle scraped off across the German's face.  
  
Schuldig grabbed the collar of Crawford's suit to keep from flying backwards. Heeding the white agony that suddenly exploded in his already fractured nose he lifted his gaze and bellowed, "I HATE BEING LEFT ALONE." The German's voice cracked with the scream, shattering into an edge of insanity and hysteria that nearly through Crawford out of his rage.  
  
Nearly.  
  
His body hit the opposing wall with a sharp crack, arms and legs flying in every which direction. Dark jade eyes stared forward, glazed, in disbelief. The back of his head exploded into a dozen stars of blinding pain followed by a quick cool blood rush of numbness. His neck fell to the side, ear resting soundly on his shoulder.   
  
Crawford loomed over him, so far gone that he didn't react to the fact that for a moment Schuldig looked as if the fall had broken his neck and killed him. "Don't you ever...ever do that again."   
  
And Schuldig smiled and made a frantic flight for the apartment door.   
  
*  
  
He pushed talk before the silver case rang a second time.  
  
"...yeah?"  
  
"Nagi. I need you to pick up Farfarello. He was injured last night and kept overnight for observation. You know where to find him."  
  
He sighed into the phone and reached for his jacket. "Yeah."  
  
The voice on the other line faded and was replaced by a dial tone.  
  
*  
  
Y'know, Yohji had been straight before getting a job at the flower shop. But working around so many squealing, salivating, ravenous girls was enough to scare anyone gay. Yes, Yohji had never felt true disgust and disinterest for these mundane creatures until they decided to form their own fan club. In his high school days he had been adamantly straight. The thought of joining the rainbow rollercoaster or being associated with anyone riding the rainbow coaster was enough to tie his stomach up in knots. God created Adam and Eve, for Chris sakes, not Adam and Steve. Yes, Yohji was a high flying, proud, bigoted, gay-basher. And there had been nothing to change his mind.   
  
But...  
  
"Oh Yohji! YOHJI!!!"  
  
  
  
"They're so cute!"  
  
"I want to marry them!"  
  
"I want to clone them!"  
  
"I want to have their children!"  
  
"Sexy! Lucky!"  
  
This was enough to make anyone throw in the towel and cheerfully join the pink team. Cheerfully, huh? Yohji stared down at a group of short high school girls who were pawing at his chest for attention. Ha, he thought. Cheerfully. Maybe that's where they got the term "gay" from.  
  
"Ladies. Ladies." He brushed through them easily, wagging his ass in a sure-fire attempt to raise their blood pressure and flaunt something they'd never HAVE. Bwah-ha. "No need to be pushy. There's enough of Yohji for everyone."  
  
Across the shop a pair of cold purple eyes narrowed.  
  
"Now which one of you are over 18?"  
  
"H-hey, Aya! Aya!" Omi leapt through the mob, shaking his red haired friend out of his jealous glaring. "Be careful, Aya!"  
  
The stoic swordfighter raised an eyebrow than glanced down to the plant he was watering. The small clay plot bubbled and overflowed, a thick speckled brown puddle forming around his feet. Aya snarled.   
  
"Oh! Aya's so scary!" One girl giggled.  
  
"Ahhh, don't worry about him." Yohji called lazily from the cash register. "We're taking him to obedience lessons and thinking about either getting him a muzzle or getting him castrated."   
  
Stupid laughter followed.   
  
Aya's face flushed crimson, encouraging more giggles. The water can in his hand trembled, he'd get Balinese back for that one later.  
  
*  
  
Nagi held his hands at his hips, head shaking lightly from one side to another. His stance was received by a blank, amber stare. To which the teenager answered with a disappointed click of the tongue. "Do you always have to be so careless?"  
  
Farfarello seemed to consider this, than nodded. "Yes. Absolutely."   
  
The nurse at his side gently patted Nagi's elbow with the instruction booklet she had been trying explain. "Please, Prodigy. Remember to inform your leader that this medication needs to be taken every six hours. That's one tablet every six hours. And his wounds need to be cleaned every 12. Berserker should avoid the shower until his wounds are more tightly healed because the jets could reopen or damage something. But soaking in a bath is okay. If there is any discoloration around the---"  
  
Nagi snapped the pamphlet out of her hands. "Nurse." He asked, his tone taking on a nasal quality that signaled to anyone who knew him that he was slipping into the depths of annoyance. "How long have you been in... this profession?"  
  
The confused woman batted her eyes, "Almost two years. Wh--"  
  
"Well...*Nurse*...I've worked with Berserker for almost five years and I can safely say I have more experience attending to an injured person than you do based on that fact alone. I know how to take care of my teammate. Spare the lecture for someone who needs it."  
  
Farfarello smirked.  
  
"Ex-excuse me, young man, but--"  
  
"Farf. Let's go."   
  
The albino stood up, knees still shaking from the blood loss. For a moment Nagi's gut quenched in fear that the baffled nurse would surge forward and demand Farfarello stayed for another few hours, or at least long enough to get another packet of hemoglobin in him. They needed to escape fast.   
  
"Hey, wait a minute. Look at you, you're in no condition to walk out of--"  
  
She was again cut off as Farfarello raised a fist at her. The poor Este worker could only stare in mute fascination as Farfarello's hand slowly unfolded to reveal a small sowing needle. Nagi paused in his stride and sighed. Farfarello, grin manic, slowly dragged the needle along the length of his middle finger, the skin opening up and dripping thick spheres of blood as the Berserker gracefully curled all his fingers back but the damaged one to flip the nurse off.  
  
"I hate hospitals."  
  
A loud whack bounced off the walls as an invisible hand smacked the scarred boy upside the head.  
  
"Enough dramatics, Farf, we're going to miss the bus."  
  
*  
  
  
  
"Crawford," Nagi was speaking before he even walked through the door. "Do you have any idea how much public transportation sucks?" The slim teen threw off his shoes and tossed his keys on the key rack. Farfarello trailed behind him like a shadow. "Couldn't you buy me a car or something? We're rich, right? I want a limo."  
  
The man seated at the dining room table didn't reply.  
  
Oh well, Nagi wasn't really paying attention. The fifteen-year-old mother hen whipped around and gave an adamant jab at the mud Farfarello was tracking through the landing. "Shoes. Off. Now."  
  
Farfarello glared.  
  
"Yeah. Welcome to Japan."  
  
Mumbling something about 'killing them all' Farfarello squatted and began unlacing his precious combats.  
  
Nagi turned back to their leader. "Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Food. I'm hungry. We need to order lots of food. I packed some serious snacks at Nagora's house. But I'm hungry again. And I'm in a good mood. We crushed another team's kingdom on Vanaquest and some bitch nurse tried to talk to me like I was a four-year-old needing to take his Flintstone vitamins. But we put her in her place, right Farf? Uh...Crawford, are you okay?"  
  
With his fingers laced together pressed against the bottom of his lip, Crawford stared blankly at the table surface.  
  
It became terribly silent.   
  
Farfarello ambled into the dining room, taking a quick inventory of who was present and who was missing. His pale lips twitched upward in a quick snarl.  
  
"...Where's Schuldig?"   
  
*  
  
  
  
The door to Aya's bedroom slammed shut. The walls vibrated and a picture fell down, glass pane face down, cracking in two places. Yohji leaned seething against his door frame, summoning enough restraint to scream out, "IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, WHY ARE YOU FUCKING ME???"  
  
The closed door didn't answer him.  
  
"YEAH. FINE!!!"  
  
Yohji attempted to end with the same dramatic slamming, but he threw his door forward so quickly that it bounced back and hit him in the side. The playboy threw out a few choice curses and tried again, this time with less force. He succeeded but the effect was ruined, now he just looked stupid.  
  
Stuuuuuuuuuupid Aya.  
  
What the hell was his problem? Accusing him of lusting after those good-for-nothing school girls. He knew it was all a game. What was Yohji suppose to do, hold a katana over his head hissing "buy something or get out?" Yeah, right. That tactic only worked for cold hearted bastards... LIKE icicle-stuck-up-his-ass-Aya-Fujimiya.   
  
God, how stupid. How utterly stupid. Aya was dating Yohji Kudoh. Yohji fucking Kudoh. Yohji who when firstly described was always fitted with the adjectives "slutty," "loose," "easy," and "possibly a hooker." Yohji who breathed sex like it was air, drank it like it was water, and clung to it like it was a lifetime. Yohji was a flirt, always had been and always would be. Aya had known that from the moment he met him.   
  
Why would he get into a relationship with the playboy if he didn't accept that kind of behavior?   
  
Yohji threw himself on his bed and dragged a hand through his bangs.  
  
What, was Aya try to "tame" him or something? Good luck.   
  
He was just getting so defensive. Ugh. Stupid Aya. Stupid Aya Fujimiya who Yohji had nearly spit-up his beer for the first time he ever laid eyes on him. Stupid Aya Fujimiya who he had secretly lusted for the last few years thinking the man was a fricking brick of ice who would never return his feelings.  
  
Stupid Aya who suddenly jumped him one lonely night after a mission, mixing the blood of the katana's victims with the blood of the wire's victims as the drenched assassins smeared flesh against flesh in savage desperation. Stupid Aya who made all his wet dreams come true by licking his lips and spreading his legs and suddenly wanted to be fucking committed.  
  
And protective. And defensive. And jealous.  
  
This isn't how the game was played. Yohji needed a smoke. He turned and reached for his dresser, the one facing the window.  
  
And a shadow with a purple and black face sat there on the cushioned window seal and winked at him.  
  
Yohji's blood ran cold.  
  
"Hey sexy. Want to give the icicle a reason to be jealous?" 


	8. do symbols have meanings?

============================================================================================  
  
Author Rant -  
  
What am I doing here? What are YOU doing here?  
  
I hate this fic. HATE this fic.   
  
My god, this looks like something I wrote in elemenatary school. Plot hole, plot hole,  
  
abrupt unfounded transituion, grammer error, spelling mistake. There's not depth,   
  
there's no story line. What's WRONG with this fic??  
  
sobs  
  
Why am I working on this?   
  
I just like to torture myself.  
  
=============================================================================================  
  
Bourbon sparkled like a fine jewel under the moonlite sky. The smell was heavy and clung to the air, a seductive toxin that lured its victims in from afar then struck when the moment was right. It burned the skin and sedated the mouth. Problems became less heavy, weight ignored gravity, and for a moment the world seemed to stop in its quiet, lumber rotation...  
  
"He doesn't deserve me." Schuldig slurred.  
  
Yohji nodded slowly, slowly because his motor skills were slowly packing up and heading south for the winter. He brought the bourbon bottle up to his spread lips and attempted to pour it into his mouth. His aim was off. Good thing he wasn't on the job. "He doesn't deserve ME!"  
  
"I could do better than him." Schuldig fell backwards onto the cobble stone floor and stared at the sky. The stars seemed to dance for him. The silver orbs spinning in circles in an inane little tango. A giggle escaped the telepath.  
  
"I could do SO much better than him." Yohji agreed.  
  
Schuldig's hands reached into the air and he tried to pinch the stars into stillness. "D' you have ANY idea how - how - how many guys I could so be with, if I wasn't with him? I mean," He paused and felt the drink crawl upwards to his throat. Schuldig closed his eyes, "I mean, I'm like, IN DEMAND! People want me."  
  
Yohji couldn't understand why the bourbon was falling onto his shoulder and not into his mouth. "People want you? People want me! I should... I should start handing out tickets! One at a time ladies! Have you seen the flowershop in the morning? It's a... it's a mad house!"  
  
"I could have a legion of men at my disposal if I wanted to."  
  
"I could have a le- leg, I could have a legio-legion of rabid fan-fangirls if I wanted." Yohji pointed out.  
  
Schuldig giggled. "Yeah. But I don't. Because I'm stupid."  
  
Yohji's eyes widened in realization, "I'm a moron! Oh my god!"  
  
"Because I choose to stay with HIM!"  
  
"What was I thinking?"  
  
Schuldig sat up and swiped the bottle from Yohji's feeble hands. "I choose HIM." He took a long hard drink. "HIM!"  
  
"God, I'm stupid."  
  
Schuldig crawled into Yohji's lap and bite at his lower lip. Jade eyes locked with emerald.   
  
"...why did I choose him?" A tongue flicked forward and probed the open mouth of the other. "What was I thinking?"  
  
=====  
  
Nagi paced into the living room.   
  
Two hours. Had it been... He squinted at the television clock again, willing the digital numbers to lie to him. Yes, it had been two hours. The Japanese youth turned on his heel and continued his march back into the kitchen. Crawford had been gone for two hours.   
  
'Where's Schuldig?'  
  
The Oracle had left without a word. The whole situation seemed ironic to Nagi, really. Wasn't Crawford suppose to know everything? There went his predictions, there went his confidence, his regaility. His control. Nagi laid his hands on the kitchen counter, giving himself a moment to rest and contemplate. His eyes skimmed and studied the reflection he saw in the counter's polished glare. If Crawford really did know everything, wouldn't he have known about this?  
  
Wouldn't he have known that Farfarello was going to turn on him in the gym room. That Schuldig was going to go party hard the following night. That Schuldig shouldn't have been left alone the day after.   
  
Some all knowing Oracle.   
  
Nagi was neither a telepath or a clarevoyent, but even he knew that the red haired busy-body didn't like to be left alone.  
  
And Crawford had left without a word. Leaving two others alone.   
  
How existential.   
  
With a sigh, Nagi pushed himself away from the tile and stalked out of the kitchen. Through the dining room, he found himself back in the living room, daring the television clock to defy him.   
  
Farfarello hadn't exploded like Nagi thought he would. Instead the injured Irish madman had to told Crawford to "run" then calmly watched him stagger towards the front door. Both of the older teammates were a mess. For once, Crawford look more haggered than Farfarello. Ironic considering the latter was punked up, insane, and just spent the night in a private hospital.   
  
Its funny the knack Schuldig had for getting everyone all rilled up. Nagi was almost jealous. He didn't think anyone would care if something happened to him.  
  
The fifteen-year-old sighed and turned to glare at the kitchen table, where Farfarello sat. The albino was pressed against the kitchen chair, head lolled back slightly, black, ugly stitches exposed. His eye was half lidded, lips spread thinly apart. He hadn't said a word since Crawford left. Nagi had no idea what was running through his mind.  
  
And he wanted to know.  
  
"Where do you think Schuldig is?" Nagi asked quietly. His voice was more subdued than he intended. Damn it, he was not about to fall in a panic for Schuldig too. He refused.  
  
Farfarello shifted in his seat. A moment passed. Then he smiled. "...not with Crawford."  
  
"Obviously," Nagi hurridly mused, " Crawford would have called if he found him. I wonder where he's..." He paused, eyes narrowing, "You didn't mean it like that, did you?"  
  
"Do you want to hear something strange?" Farfarello whispered.  
  
He checked the clock again. Maybe it was broken.  
  
"...entertain me."  
  
"The Weiss Kitten... he was talking about the Mastermind."  
  
"How is that?" Nagi had returned to the kitchen again. He paused and jerked around. "You don't mean they're..."  
  
"Crawford's got a blindside." Farfarello chuckled. He folded his arms together and seemed to draw into himself. His head fell down, chin nearly touching his neck. "He didn't forsee this."  
  
=============  
  
Yohji Kudoh woke up feeling oddly refreshed. Oddly, because he knew he was hung over and because... he wasn't used to greeting the day without dread. Daylight was starting to become an enemy to him, not only because it meant he had survived the night, but because it meant he'd have to spend another afternoon in that flowershop. With the screaming girs. With Aya. With the screaming girls and Aya.  
  
Sometimes he just didn't want to get out of bed.  
  
A body rustled beside him. The flash of bleach green hair. The scent of bourbon, a familiar moan.   
  
Make-up sex really was good, wasn't it?  
  
Yohi, eyes still closed, grinned and placed his hand on the naked back of his partner. He stared to rub the warm skin in slow, comforting circles. Yup, this is what he lived for. These peaceful moments when everyone forgot they hated each other and just lived for a single warm, quiet moment.  
  
Then he realized Aya didn't have blond green hair. And Aya didn't smell like Bourbon.  
  
Then he realized that Schuldig had molested him.  
  
"Christ Almighty." Yohji whispered and pulled a pillow over his head.  
  
Schuldig, face still buried in the mattress, reached out blindly to touch the Eurasians neck and let out a soft mew. "Crawford mmm... get me.... coffee."  
  
"This isn't a bed and breakfeast, Schu." Yohji mumbled. "You and me, we're in a lot of trouble."  
  
Schuldig's hand stiffened then slowly clenched into a fist.   
  
"...don't get violent. You're in my house and I'll scream rape." Ah, now the red ache of the hangover was starting to set in. Yohji winced. "And believe me, Psychic Power Ranger Boy, they're more likely to believe that story from my mouth than from yours."  
  
The German let out a small moan. "You're such a fucking girl, Kudoh."  
  
"Just get out of my bed before Aya finds out."  
  
He didn't so much as shift. "Can't move. Too hung over."  
  
Yohji sat up on his elbows and checked the clock. 7 AM, good. He had a couple of hours before the boys expected him down for breakfeast. Still had to be quiet though, Omi was probably up and getting ready for school. Yohji surveyed his room and wondered how him and Schuldig had ended up in there. They started in the back alley of the flowershop.   
  
Oh. The window was still open.  
  
"What's today?" He asked suddenly, hoping maybe it was one of his days off. His head hurt, but in this sitatuion he didn't have time to think slowly.  
  
"Tuesday." Schuldig grunted and pulled more of the blankets towards his body.   
  
"Damn, I have to be downstairs in two hours." Freckin' flowrshop.  
  
Schuldig yawned. "Flowers suck."  
  
"...whats your favorite flower?"  
  
"...Snapedragons..."  
  
Yohji's head tilted to the side, he attempted to regain some of the blankets. "That's a weird choice."  
  
"Crawford says I'm a snapdragon." Schuldig pulled the blankets back.  
  
"Very weird choice." Yohji gained some footing and took the bottom sheets to himself.  
  
"Why's that?" Schuldig wrapped both legs around the comforter.  
  
"Do you know what the snapdragon means in the language of flowers?"   
  
A dazed jade eye slide open, orange-red eyebrow arched in annoyance. Whether it was because Yohji was asking too many questions too early in the morning, or because he had lost control of the bed sheets was questionable. "Kudoh, I can barely speak YOUR language, what the hell would I know about some flowe--"  
  
Yohji barked a laugh. "Okay, easy. I just think its odd that Crawford would call you that." He shrugged.  
  
Suddenly Schuldig seemed more awake. "Why?"  
  
"Snapdragons," Yohji tilted his head to the size, curious as to why Schuldig would care that much about some nickname the oracle pinned onto him that probably had no real symbolic meaning in the first place. "in the language of flowers means 'Deception.'"  
  
Schuldig sat up and stared. "They..." He looked at Kudoh wildly and Yohji found himself jumping back against the headboard. Jade eyes narrowed. "What do daisys stand for?"  
  
"Daisys, they stand for 'Loyalty in Love.' Why?"   
  
In a flash Schuldig was out of bed and scrambling for his clothes. "I've got to go. I've got to... I've got to find Crawford and... and... put a bullet in his head. I've got to." He fumbled into his trousers and started pulling at his hair. "I've got to find Crawford."  
  
"Schuldig?"  
  
"I've made a terrible mistake, I've got to find..."  
  
Footsteps in the hall.  
  
"Yohji, what's that noise?" The door opened and both men - one only half dressed froze. "Schwartz."  
  
"Aya." 


	9. Bloodless

Aya Fujimiya had always been a naturally pale person. Even when he spent time in the sun, his skin never darkened passed a cinged alabaster; if anything, he just burned and became blood red, like the color of his hair. For those reasons, Aya avoided the sun. 

There were many things Aya avoided, because they were too painfully or too annoying. Sunburns for one, also loud music, drinking, partying... drugs. He used to avoid people like Yohji Kudoh too, looking on at those types with open disgust in high school and out around town. Those thoughtless, careless people who jumped from person to person, proclaiming love and loyalty and then stabbing them in the back.

Deception was a sin Aya abhorred above all others - perhaps it was because when he was eleven he had caught his father in the middle of a scandalous act with his mothers bestfriend, then threatened by both of them to never repeat what he saw to a living soul; perhaps it was just because it defiled his strict code of ethics. He was a samurai, after all, a katana weilding maniac who pledged loyalty for the glory of revenge and the golden gleam of a dollar.

Dispite his code, he was forced to work and interact with the likes of Yohji Kudoh, the epitomy of everything he loathed and tried to distance himself from. And then he went and fell in love with him. How insane was he?

Aya Fujimiya had always been pale, but now - staring into the bewildered face of his nightmarish enemy - he was colorless.

Time froze and a dark icy chill seemed to envelop the room as the three stared at each other. This was the part where Aya drew forth his death weapon and let out a battle cry, tearing both his treacherous lover and his damnable a foe asunder in one angst ridden blow. This was the part where the faithful and noble samurai fell weakly to the floor and covered his mouth as the bile lurched up his throat, all the while whimpering in horror as the tears threatened to fill up the floor and drown him.

This was the part where he did... something.

"Aya..." Yohji said, still seated comfortably on the soiled bedspread.

Shaken purple eyes wretched themselves from the towering psychic to the startled Eurasian.

"It's not..." Yohji pulled his bare legs over the bedside and set them on the wooden floor. "I can explain."

How cliche.

Going against his character, Schuldig had to the good grace not to look smug. Actually, he looked just as frightened and confused and GUILTY as the other two.

"Aya..." Yohji said again, his voice pleading.

Please understand. Just give me a minute, and please understand...

Aya's gaze shifted back to the German assassin, the cruel prediator whos team had been trying to kill them just hours before.

Schuldig pulled a strand of oddly died blonde-green hair away from his face and tucked it behind his ear. The act was very feminine. He looked pale.

"Aya..."

"Get out," The tone of his voice was brutal, like that of a snarling animal. Worse.

Yohji and Schuldig stared at him.

"NOW!" Aya screamed and stepped back out of the door, which he slammed shut. His hands balled into trembling fists, finger nails digging painfully into his flesh. He regarded the closed door, "GET OUT NOW!"

His scream was so off-key and hoarsed and Ken was roused from his usual unshakeable slumber. The soccer player frowned and crawled across the room, sticking his head out the door. Omi, with his jacket and backpack in hand, ran up the stairs, eyes wide.

And then Aya snapped, fell against the wall, and began shaking with dry, soundless cries.

Authors Note - there was suppose to be more to this chapter... but I'm tired. See, I can only write a whole chapter in one sitting, or else I save it and never look at it again. Don't worry, I have an ending in mind... and it's getting close to it (thank god). But, I'm going to sleep...


	10. Loose Ends

He didn't expect to break down when he saw Crawford again. He didn't expect to act like such a fucking little girl. But something got ahold of him, something strong, violent, and completely out of character. His mind tried to justify it, he wasn't being himself, he wasn't this emotional, he wasn't weepy. He wasn't... 

...Guilty.

Schuldig stumbled through the city streets with no intent or direction. His face was pale with horror, a shocking contrast to the bright light that poured down on him from the crystal clear and otherwise carefree morning sun. People grunted and cursed as he pushed through them, slicing across the crowds with his superior foreigner height and weight, several cars had to stop and almost barrel out as he stepped blindly into traffic.

The city minds hummed at him. A collection of cries and murmurs, voices he could normally tune out, but today were almost deafing: Guilty, guilty, guilty.

Those betrayed eyes...

A familiar void spread out in front of him, but Schuldig was too far gone to pay attention. He kept walking, head cast down, hair spilling around his face to cover his eyes. His hands were shoved deep in his rumpled pant pockets, his shoulders were tucked forward.

He hardly registered the pain when he slammed head forward into the stone-like body blocking the path before him. Normally, Schuldig would have looked up sharply and begin cursing anything that got in his way, but today he just flinched back and closed his eyes. God, he felt so fucking weak. Weak and...

Two arms wrapped around him and he didn't fight the embrace. He felt himself shaking, burying his face into the shadows of Crawford's coat jacket. He was led away, to the archway of a bakery where they could stand still together without the interuption of disgruntle pedestrains. Schuldig cried without reason, his face hot and pained, and Crawford held him, silent, wall-like. The only sign of warmth coming from the other man was the steady hold over Schuldig's body, the careful, light sweeps of Crawford's hand making soothing circles on the small of his back.

Schuldig tried to form words to make sense of what he was feeling, but nothing came out. Only wet sniffles of insanity.

Such a fucking girl.

And Crawford allowed it. Crawford, forebaring and perfect, never one to stand humilation in public, always more concerned about his reputation than the welfare of his teammates... Crawford was allowing him to weep on his shoulder. Allowing those around him to slow and stare at the two foreginers, locked in a midmorning embrace, oozing of mellowdramatics. Crawford was comforting him.

"I..." Schuldig started, he didn't want to pull his face away from the dark confines of Crawford's chest. He could hide here. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry-I'm sorry..."

Crawford shook his head and tightened his grip around the hysterical telepath.

Minutes passed, maybe half an hour, eventually Schuldig settled down. As his cries calmed and his flushed skin returned to a normal color, he held himself locked against the American, not ready to let go. One of Crawford's hands dropped and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his cell-phone. Crawford examined it over Schuldig's shoulder and thumbed the power off just as the small device began ringing. The phone was tucked away and the arm returned to massasing Schuldig's back.

More time passed. Schuldig breathed heavilly, not speaking.

Finally Crawford's lips parted. "Are you ready to go home?"

Maybe stories like these did have happy endings.

Schuldig shook his head, "Don't leave me alone," he whispered, "I don't want to be left alone like this."

The look on the bloodless samurai's face...

A field of daisies and sunshine.

Crawford stepped back, one arm still wrapped around Schuldig's shoulder. He lead the younger man back into the crowd, their direction pointed towards a parking lot. "I'll take care of you. This time. When you can't take care of yourself."

Schuldig nodded and slide into the car when they reached it. He allowed Crawford to pull the seatbelt across his lap and buckle it into place. He didn't want to be left alone anymore, look at the destruction he caused when he was left alone.

-  
-

Farfarello met them at the front door, his amber gaze touching Crawford's eyes then lowering in silent agreement. Kneeling down he helped Schuldig out of his shoes and followed the pair to the telepath's bedroom. Farfarello pulled back the covers and brought in an extra blanket, sparing only a moment at the door before leaving Crawford and Schuldig alone.

Nagi waited for Farfarello in the living room, the teenager was still clad in his pajamas, his front blackened out from the flood of light pouring in through the wall-to-ceiling glass window behind him. "How is he?"

Farfarello shook his head, stepping aside and taking a seat on the far corner of the couch, the only sliver of the room not burned out with sunlight. His hand moved slowly to his face, pulling at his eyepatch in nervous irration. The strap stretched, he released, a dull slap against his face.

"Do you think..." Nagi started. His voice faltered and he had to sit down. "Do you think Schuldig is having a breakdown?"

The Irishman thought back to the events of the past few days. Of Crawford and Schuldig and that damned Weiss assassin. Their words, their actions, their mistakes. Things had moved together as if in a dance, each step a perfect direction to an ultimate ending.

"People build up walls," Nagi continued, speaking mostly to himself. A hand raised to his mouth and he chewed on the edge of his thumb absent mindly. "People build up walls around their feelings, and inside those walls you can't see other people."

Farfarello sighed, tired of being asked questions. "The world breaks everyone, Nagi. And everyone needs to become strong, rebuild, and stand on those broken peices."

Crawford could only push his telepath so far before he reached his limit. Before Schuldig did something stupid. Crawford, always so confident in his visions, didn't realize he had shoved Schuldig over the edge.

But maybe...

The two younger members of Schwartz turned their attention to the hallway leading to Crawford and Schuldig's bedrooms.

- -

A week passed.

"Your head... if you hurt him again... I'll cut it off."

Schuldig was granted a leave of absence.

They fought Weiss again.

"Yes, I would appreciate that."

Crawford brought flowers home one evening. Schuldig cried. Farfarello and Nagi took their coats and went out.

Another few weeks passed, they hadn't seen Weiss in a long time. Winter came and it began to snow.

- -

"--the target has been destroyed. Get a confirmation from the south post, but hurry it up, will you? I'm freezing my nuts off here." Yohji watched from the embers die down from the smoldering vechile that laid in peices below him. From the safety of the building, he could barely feel the fire's heat. Snow fell down and spotted his hair and shoulders, a cold breeze made him shudder.

He always felt cold now.

Ready to pull off his sun glasses and head in for the night, Yohji was caught more than a little off guard when a figure shifted in the shadows in front of him. His numb fingers fumbled with taunt piano wire, the coils from his watch were strung tight and resistant in the cold November weather. Yohji's headset fell off and clattered to the floor, forced out of his ear from a jerk or surprise.

Stupid... STUPID Yohji. You're dead.

"Where's Abyssinian?" A cold quiet voice. He stepped forward, stepping into the moon light. Pure white against the pitch black shadows.

Yohji swallowed a lump in his throat.

The enemy looked from one side to another. "Hmm." He appeared to be unarmed, but with this one, looks were always decieving. "I see Siberian. The little one... Bombay... I saw him. But the red one?"

Yohji remembered the taste of blood in his mouth. "He left... a month ago. He's working somewhere else. He-he's not in Weiss anymore, so you have no reason to be looking for him!"

Farfarello tilted his head thoughtfully to the side.

Fighting to regain his composure, Yohji raised his wire in a defiant stance. "I apologize if I just off-ed one of your little contacts. I didn't know Schwartz dealt with scum in the kiddy porno ring too. You guys are so low, you'll do anything, won't you?"

Farfarello's gaze flickered to the billowing smoke clouds for a moment then shifted back to Yohji. He shook his head. "No. Not one of ours."

"Then why are you here?" Yohji snapped, his voice a pitch higher and more strained than he wanted. "Why are you asking about Aya? Haven't you done enough damage already?"

"You meant nothing to him."

Yohji's eyes widen.

The Irishman smiled in return, taking a step forward.

"What do you know? Huh? What do you know?" Yohji was screaming. "Aya LOVED me! And I fucked it up! I fucked it up with Mastermind and Aya..." He faltered, searching Farfarello face. "Aya... or do you mean... Schuldig?"

Yohji groaned and sank to the floor. He pressed his hands against the side of his temples, trying to shove a throbbing headache away. "So what," He asked after a moment, "I fucked it up between Schuldig and Oracle and that's pissed you off or something? Yeah, well... I hope they're all fucked up too, you know? They deserve it too. Jesus, I was drunk, Farfie! Why won't anyone cut me a break?"

Farfarello crouched down next to Yohji, close enough so that the other assassin could feel his breath.

"Did you come here to kill me?"

"...someone needs to tie up the loose ends."

Another sigh. "Of course... of course."

Stupid question.


End file.
